


If you want me, you better speak up (I won't wait)

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: And now my favorite color is blue [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Derek Hale Has No Chill, Jock Derek Hale, Love Bites, M/M, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Needy Stiles Stilinski, No I didn't spell pining wrong there's seriously a lot of pinning happening, Pillow Talk, Rimming, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Teen AU, Teen Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Teen Stiles Stilinski, pinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: See, the thing is, Stiles knows he doesn't have a right to feel as anxious as he does right now. Even though that increasingly louder, super annoying part of his unconscious mind keeps whispering, everybody leaves, I told you so, you were dumb enough to think...Which is ridiculous because it's not like Derek's abandoned him or anything. Missing one lunch with him is not grounds for the absolute freak out his brain is demanding, especially when they've never outright verbally planned on any of them. Stiles had just kind of expected it after nearly two months of Derek just kind of showing up here every day. It shouldn't be a big deal, because he's not a crazy person.He's not.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: And now my favorite color is blue [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859086
Comments: 19
Kudos: 671





	If you want me, you better speak up (I won't wait)

**Author's Note:**

> How did this happen again? I don't know. I was trying to work on the next installment of my Female!Stiles verse and this came out instead. Teen Derek is sneaky that way. Dedicating this to Fred just cuz!

See, the thing is, Stiles knows he doesn't have a right to feel as anxious as he does right now. Even though that increasingly louder, super annoying part of his unconscious mind keeps whispering,  _ everybody leaves, I told you so, you were dumb enough to think... _ Which is ridiculous because it's not like Derek's abandoned him or anything. Missing one lunch with him is not grounds for the absolute freak out his brain is demanding, especially when they've never outright verbally planned on any of them. Stiles had just kind of expected it after nearly two months of Derek just kind of showing up here every day. It shouldn't be a big deal, because he's not a crazy person.

He's  _ not _ .

So, Stiles wonders, chewing anxiously on the end of his pencil, why does he feel like this? Like there's a little piece of him missing, a small piece maybe, but noticeable enough to bother him, nag at him like a sliver in his finger or a rock in his shoe. Maybe it was the simple fact that he'd just gotten used to Derek always being there. Allowed himself to grow accustomed to the simple act of reaching out and having somebody always there reaching back.

“Where's your shadow, Stilinski? Did the Hale kid finally come to his senses and realize he was slumming it?”

Oh joy, Stiles thinks, hazarding a look up from his chemistry homework to see Jackson standing over him, looking smarmy. He'd also (rather stupidly) gotten used to the buffer Derek had provided him, simply by  _ being Derek. _ Apparently, without his wolf bodyguard around, it was open season again.

Normally he'd have some verbal defense, a sarcastic barb prepared, but honestly, he's too tired and too anxious to deal with this right now.

“If anyone here knows something about slumming it, it'd be me. I dated  _ you _ after all.” Lydia's voice may as well be an angel's chorus, and Stiles would kiss her if he wasn't sure that she might maim him for trying. Stiles tries his best instead to communicate his gratitude with his eyes. Lydia smiles warmly at him and then turns her glowering death glare at Jackson before flouncing off to fifth period with a noticeable spring in her step.

Jackson just rolls his eyes and scoffs before slinking away like the creep he is.

The rest of the day doesn't go much better, so by the time Stiles makes it home, he's beyond crabby. His head hurts and there's that annoying ache in his chest, and it's rare for him to be able to sleep all that well as it was, but his bed suddenly calls to him like a beacon. He hasn't heard from Derek all day, but it's not even five yet, so a normal human being probably wouldn't be so fixated, but when has Stiles been normal? So screw it. He pulls back the covers and crawls in and pulls the blankets over his head, wishing for the oblivion of sleep.

…

His mother had warned him about the mating bond, that it could be _ intense, _ but Derek hadn't really understood until now just what that meant. The wolf in Derek has been going nuts, scratching at his human skin like it's trying to tear a hole in it and crawl its way out. It's the first time he hasn't been near Stiles at least once during the day since he first laid eyes on him, first touched him, tasted him. He hadn't expected it to feel so jarring, for the emptiness to itch like a scab he's trying his absolute hardest not to pick. It's not like he has anything to compare it to. Paige had never affected him quite like this, had never drawn his instincts out so completely that he struggled to keep them below the surface.

And fuck, he hasn't even really claimed the boy yet, so if he's already  _ this _ far gone. The thought makes him shiver, and he's already struggling to keep his claws and fangs in check, white-knuckling the steering wheel and fantasizing about all the different ways he could slice and dice the teacher who'd given him detention in the first place and caused this whole mess. Okay,  _ Derek _ might have caused that with the whole backtalk thing, but sue him. It's not like he could explain it to a clueless human, blame the whole skipping school thing on the wolf's intrinsic need to be near its mate. It's not like he was doing anything important with his free period anyway.

By the time he makes it to Stiles's house, he can smell it from all the way outside, the sour lemon scent of sadness undercut with longing that makes his eyes water and his nose wrinkle. It's even worse up close when he vaults into the room and pushes the window open. It's not that late, but Stiles's room is already dark. Derek can see just fine though: Stiles is curled up in his bed, asleep judging from the slow and steady rhythm of his breathing and his heartbeat.

Or at least he was. The boy jerks like Derek's shocked him awake, even though he hasn't even touched him yet, blinking fast like he's trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Derek?”

“Mmhmm,” Derek answers quickly, and in a flash, he's by Stiles's side. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “I just – knew you were there, I guess.” And before Derek can say anything else, Stiles has all but thrown himself into his arms, nuzzling into Derek's chest and clinging to his shirt like he's worried Derek's going to slip right through his fingers like smoke or something.

“Hey,” Derek murmurs, stroking Stiles's shorn hair with careful steadying touches of his hands, “are you okay, baby? You smell...wrong.”

“You know I _hate_ when you do that,” the boy grumps. Stiles's scent ripens with something that Derek can't quite place. Embarrassment? Shame? “I just missed you today that's all. S'stupid.”

“I missed you too,” Derek says, “I always miss you when I'm not near you. It's not stupid.”

“But it was only one day,” Stiles says like he almost needs to convince himself that's all it was. “I just – I couldn't get a hold of you and I got worried, I guess.”

Derek's the one feeling the shame now. “I kind of got detention,” he admits, chuckling, scratching his nails against Stiles’s scalp and relishing the shiver he feels under his hand.

Stiles snorts. “I thought you were the golden boy over there. They gave  _ you _ detention?”

“I maybe might have missed a few classes coming to visit you so often.”

“You got detention _because of me?”_ Stiles asks incredulously.

Derek shrugs. “Worth it.”

Stiles shakes his head, but he can't hide the way his scent goes sugary sweet again,  _ not-so-secretly pleased. “ _ You shouldn't miss school for me.”

_ I would do anything for you _ , is what Derek wants to say, but only nods his head, pressing a kiss to Stiles's cheek and pulling him closer.

“Although I can't deny people are much nicer to me with you around,” Stiles says offhandedly. A little  _ too offhandedly, _ Derek thinks, unable to quell the growl caught in his throat.

…

“Hey, enough with the growling. I'm fine, I told you,” Stiles says quickly. Because really, he’s fine now that Derek's here, touching him, which is something he doesn't even know how to begin to examine. He should not be this needy for someone he's only known for a mere couple of months. It just feels like so much more, he doesn't know how to –

“What happened?” Derek asks insistently.

Stiles flushes, not wanting to say anything. “Nothing.”

“Lie.”

_ Ugh, werewolves. “ _ Jackson was just being a dick like usual. It's fine.”

“You know, saying you're fine over and over doesn't exactly make me think it's true, sweetheart. What did he say to you?”

Stiles groans. “Nothing. The same stupid stuff he always says about me, and you – “ he trails off, not wanting to think about that douchebag when being here in Derek's arms is so, so much better.

_ “Me?” _

“You know, just that you're you and I'm me so you must be _ – slumming it –  _ is the phrase I think he used.”

Stiles isn't exactly surprised that Derek's eyes flash cobalt, and the snarl he lets out breaks up the hush of Stiles's bedroom, and their quiet whispering. What he's not expecting is Derek to suddenly start pulling away from him. At this, Stiles whines and clings tighter to Derek's waist like he even has a chance to be able to keep him there. “And where exactly do you think you're going?”

Derek snarls. “To kill Jackson.”

“Calm down, Cujo,” Stiles says, and this time he's the one trying to be all soothing, reaching up to trace circles on Derek’s twitching jaw with gentle touches. “You can't just run off and maul everyone who's mean to me.”

“Yes I can,” Derek says, grimacing. “If anyone does anything to you, I'll tear their throats out.”

And really that should not be so comforting, but still, the idea that someone cares about him so much they're willing to do something like that? Well, it doesn't exactly suck, but it does definitely make his boyfriend probably more than a little bit crazy. Also, Stiles is pretty sure that makes him crazy, too.

“If you kill Jackson, you'll go to jail and I'm not visiting you in a place like that, so forget it.”

Derek rolls those glowing blue eyes of his and huffs dramatically. “Fine, he lives. This time.” 

“How very noble and generous of you,” Stiles says, pressing a conciliatory kiss to the wolf’s lips. "My hero.” This is not enough for Derek, evidently, because the older boy growls, and then Stiles finds himself pinned underneath him (not that Stiles minds, really, he’s just a bit shocked). He doesn’t even get the chance to take a breath before it’s stolen right out from his mouth. 

It’s too easy for Stiles to forget his earlier pains entirely, lose himself in that desperate slide of their mouths pressed together. Because Derek’s kisses are just like him, intense, hungry, impossible to predict. It’s exhilarating how quickly the wolf could turn something soft and gentle into something so forceful and rough. How Stiles can literally feel it, that aching need, in the way Derek holds him so tightly, licks into his mouth like he’s dying to get a taste. In that way, it’s also incredibly  _ flattering _ . Because like this, in Derek’s arms, Stiles has never felt so completely and utterly wanted. Sue him for growing accustomed to the feeling. 

“Well, if I’m a hero now, don’t I get a reward?” Derek asks cheekily, nosing against Stiles’s throat.

At that, Stiles scoffs, nipping at Derek’s earlobe peeking out from those wild tufts of black hair. “If anyone deserves a reward, it’s me. I’m the one you left waiting all day, remember?” And Derek would definitely call this whining, but Stiles finds he can’t be sorry about it in the least. 

“Patience is a virtue, you know.”

“I can be patient,” Stiles says petulantly, though his actions don’t exactly bolster his credibility, because with an exaggerated noise of effort, he’s shoving Derek off of him so he can be the one doing the pinning for once. Granted, they both know that the only reason Stiles is now enjoying his current position, straddling Derek’s hips and gazing down all smug like he’s won something, is because Derek’s allowing it to happen. But whatever, Stiles will gladly take and enjoy whatever he can get, thank you very much.

“I wouldn’t even need to use my werewolf powers to know that is a big, fat lie,” Derek says. Though Stiles notes, with even more smugness, that his wolf’s voice has gone lower, rough, and the hand splayed on Stiles’s hip has somehow managed to grip him even tighter. 

...

“Even so,” Stiles says, his lips twisted in that annoyingly delicious pout that drives Derek nuts on a good day, “I deserve my reward. So, I’m in charge, and so there.” He seals that declaration with an achingly soft press of lips under Derek’s jaw that makes it clench so tight he swears he hears a crack. 

“And you called me bossy,” Derek says, wondering if, at the moment, that sounded as weak to Stiles as it does to his own ears. Because he’s never quite sure where he stands with the other boy, as ridiculous as that might seem to anyone looking in from the outside. Sometimes Derek’s sure of it, that he’s the one running the show here, but then Stiles turns him all topsy-turvy, head over heels, with a single touch, or a word, or a smile. In this case, quite literally. Perhaps he doesn’t realize it, Derek muses, watching with flickering eyes as Stiles starts to run his fingers over the fabric of the wolf’s shirt like he’s considering a chess move or solving some kind of intricate puzzle. “Do you need instructions on how to open it?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “First of all,” he starts, Derek still watching those long, slender fingers dancing over his still-clothed chest with due suspicion, “you  _ are  _ bossy. And second...” The suspicion was warranted, it turns out, because Derek’s startling at the sudden ripping sound of his shirt tearing, the plinking of plastic buttons hitting the floor from all directions. And Stiles, Stiles is laughing. Because of course he is. “I told you. I know what I’m doing. And I kind of get it now, I think,” the boy adds, and Derek’s shivering for a different reason when Stiles’s cool hands trail up and over his bare chest teasingly. “Tearing off your clothes  _ is  _ kind of fun.”

“Well, I guess I’m just glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Derek mutters, sounding both surprisingly and deceptively cool despite the sudden itching need to pop his claws. Stiles doesn’t answer him but for the warm breath near Derek’s heart, and then the even warmer lips at his collarbone. For a moment there is silence, shockingly. Just quickening breaths from the both of them, Derek trying his hardest not to completely lose it while Stiles takes his time to dutifully examine every inch of the wolf trapped underneath him. It’s a little like being stared at under a microscope, how carefully he’s being touched, but it also feels a little like being worshipped. Derek doesn’t know how to reconcile either one. 

“So did nature use you as, like, the textbook evolutionary example of the golden ratio? Because I’m pretty sure even Fibonacci would say,  _ damn.  _ Dude…” Stiles says, shaking his head,  _ “you’re kind of beautiful.” _

“Don’t call me dude _.”  _ It’s not like Derek hasn’t heard what people think about him. He’s not blind, and he’s not stupid. He has eyes. He sees how people look at him. At worst, it’s embarrassing, at best (and from most people),  _ it’s boring.  _ From Stiles, he’s not sure yet how it feels in a way he can put into words. Like most things regarding Stiles, it’s so instinctual sometimes it doesn’t feel like there  _ are _ words for it. “And secondly,” he starts, gritting his teeth to bite back a moan because now Stiles is tracing circles around his hip bones, sliding his thin fingers teasingly underneath the waistband of Derek’s jeans, “is this you attempting to  _ talk nerdy  _ to me?” 

Stiles laughs. “Why? Is it working?”

Judging from the sudden tightness of his pants, Derek’s not sure how Stiles can even seriously ask that question. It is embarrassingly, strikingly obvious. From the sudden appearance of the devil’s grin on Stiles’s face, and the way he’s suddenly very intent on rocking his hips in a  _ very  _ specific, very tortuous way, he’s noticed.

“It’s not just that you’re beautiful,” Stiles hums thoughtfully, “it’s that you’re... _ perfect _ .”

“M’not perfect,” Derek grumbles. Because he’s so not, and even Derek’s undeniably not-small ego isn't big enough for him to ever truly believe that for a second.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “I mean, personal bias aside, some might say you have some faults.” At this, the boy winks and sticks out his tongue and it only stirs that fire in Derek’s belly because god, he’d really like to bite that tongue. “I meant that you don’t have a mark on you. No freckles, no birthmarks, no scars. It’s just odd,” Stiles says, “because I’m, like, covered in all three. Kind of comes with the whole clumsy package.”

“You? Clumsy?” Derek asks through a toothy smile, to which Stiles responds with a nip to Derek’s throat that leaves the wolf swallowing down another strangled curse. “The blank canvas is also kind of part of the whole not-human, werewolf package.” It’s not even something he really thinks about because that’s just how he’s always looked, how he’s always been. Though he supposes he can understand where Stiles is coming from. Scars were like a visible reminder of being human. Of mortality. And Derek’s not really rocking either of those things -- never has. “Let me see if I can remember some of the greatest hits,” he says softly, lifting his hand away from where it’s been clutched almost painfully around Stiles’s sheets, threading his fingers through the other boy’s and dragging them to a spot below his belly button, a little off-center and to the right. 

…

Stiles isn’t one-hundred-percent certain what’s happening here, but he gets to keep touching Derek, so he’s not going to complain. Instead, he stays quiet, watching the path Derek takes with their clasped hands with a furrowed look of intense concentration.

“When Cora was three,” Derek murmurs, stroking a thumb over Stiles’s knuckles in such an achingly gentle way as he talks that Stiles can’t help but break out in goosebumps, “she wasn’t very good at controlling her shift. She tried to tackle me, to give me a hug, and she ended up nearly disemboweling me. For how tiny her claws were, there was surprisingly a lot of blood. She cried for hours. I felt terrible.” 

Stiles’s mouth falls open, mostly because Derek’s half-laughing as he says it, like it’s a funny memory instead of actually horrifying. This reaction doesn’t seem to rattle Derek, because he just shrugs and pulls their hands up to rest just below Derek’s rib cage on his left side. “And here?” 

“Impaled by a broken tree branch. I fell off a mountain going running with my uncle.”

“Excuse you,” Stiles sputters. “A mountain?”

Derek’s doing that head-tilt thing, looking all perplexed. Disgustingly handsome, but definitely confused. Perhaps, Stiles thinks, he might be starting to realize this gambit was not turning out as sexy and seductive as he thought it would. “It was a small mountain? More like a large hill, really. I suppose I probably shouldn’t tell you about the time Laura pushed me off the roof if this is going to be the expected reaction from you.” 

“She pushed you off a roof?” Stiles asks incredulously, wincing when hears his voice go mortifyingly high and squeaky. “For fun?” 

“Oh, no, definitely not for fun," Derek says, laughing again (which Stiles is really starting to find irritating, because stories of Derek getting hurt over and over, really not doing it for him). “I told her that her prom date smelled like a trash can, which I still maintain was true. Clove cigarettes and Olde English,” Derek says, shuddering, face all scrunched like he’s fighting off the urge to vomit. “I broke my collarbone in three places and nearly bit my tongue in half.”

“Of course you did,” Stiles says, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Are all werewolves suicidal idiots, or is this just a you thing?”

“You’ve met Scott, right?” Derek asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Okay, Stiles thinks, fair point. He must really have a sour expression on his face though, because Derek’s apparently abandoned the game now, sitting upright and snaking his arms around him, pulling Stiles close and nuzzling into his throat like he means to soothe him. It helps, but it doesn’t exactly keep the horror-movie reel from playing nonstop in his head, the one that’s just an endless loop of Derek’s blood and guts falling out of him like he’s a cereal box and somebody’s pulled out the toy surprise. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek murmurs. “It’s too easy for me to forget sometimes with you.”

“Forget what?”

“That this stuff wasn’t normal for you growing up. That you’re human.”

“Duh, of course I’m human,” Stiles says, scoffing. “Did you forget about the whole unfortunately-made-up-of-entirely-fragile-skin-and-bones thing?” 

“Baby,” Derek says, and it is so not fair for him to be calling Stiles that right now, or for him to be trailing those kisses down his neck, or for him to be pulling Stiles’s t-shirt down to suck hickeys on his shoulders for that matter. “You don’t act like any human I’ve ever met. You’re more scared of other people than you are of  _ actual _ monsters.” 

“You’re not a monster,” Stiles says, indignant, “and trust me, you’re not that scary.” 

“Agree to disagree,” Derek says, allowing that electric blue to bleed into his eyes, which is another so-not-fair tactic because he knows exactly what it does to Stiles. From the smirk he’s wearing now, Stiles thinks he must be able to see it, not to mention smell it. And really, Stiles should expect it now, and yet he’s somehow still taken completely by surprise when Derek flips them with an embarrassingly minimal amount of effort, baring his teeth in a way that is both infuriating and also incredibly fucking hot. 

“You can’t look at me like that when I’m still mad at you,” Stiles says, scowling up at the ceiling. “It’s not fair.”

Derek seems unperturbed by this opinion, still wearing that shit-eating grin when he leans down to capture Stiles’s lips in a kiss so tender it actually makes Stiles even  _ madder  _ because it’s so good it only makes him want more. “Maybe not,” he admits, licking insistently into Stiles’s mouth, tasting him, trailing wet kisses down his throat, “and I’m fully intending on making it up to you. Starting now.”

Stiles has his dignity. Really, he does. But apparently, he must have misplaced it for the moment, because Stiles can’t do anything but whine needily when Derek uses those stupid, sexy claws of his to tear off yet another one of his t-shirts (christ, he gives up -- he’ll wear Derek’s shirts from now on unless the wolf is willing to start ponying up to replace his increasingly dwindling wardrobe). The older boy takes his time, too, rubbing the barest hint of stubble over Stiles’s chest, all the way down to his stomach. Derek’s teeth scrape that soft, sensitive skin right below his belly-button, and Stiles can’t help it when his hips buck, and the wolf only laughs before pressing more teasing bites down his legs all the way to his bony knees. His breath hitches, because Stiles can imagine it, the imprints of teeth he’ll see tomorrow on all those places Derek’s kissed, all marked up and mottled pink, and his stomach flips, twisted up with heat. Derek makes quick work of his jeans and then Stiles is once again the one left all naked and vulnerable.

“And you call  _ me  _ perfect,” Derek purrs in that way he does, his voice all sexy and low and rough, scraping over Stiles’s skin as harshly as those teeth had. Stiles groans and he has to tear his hands away from where they’ve been tangled in Derek’s messy, black hair to cover his face in embarrassment. “Don’t do that,” Derek growls, and Stiles is shocked out how quickly and automatically he obeys, letting his hands fall to his sides, nervously scratching at the bedspread. “Not for me,” the wolf says. “Never cover yourself for me.”

Stiles is nodding wordlessly because god, what else can he say when Derek is looking up at him like this, holding his gaze so intensely there’s simply nowhere for Stiles to hide. So he can only watch, wide-eyed, as Derek slides his hands up Stiles’s legs, hooking them under his pale knees to pull him close. The wolf’s expression can only be categorized as  _ hungry _ because he’s leaning down to lick at the base of Stiles’s agonizingly hard cock before swallowing him down. Stiles moans, his legs twitching and his back arching halfway off the bed as Derek works him with his mouth and his tongue, the most miserably perfect torture until Stiles is so close he could scream. 

And then...  _ then... _ he stops.  _ “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” _ Stiles cries out between painfully clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut and mouth twisted into an angry pout. Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles is like _ this close _ to pitching a real fit here, but he only manages to get his hands back in Derek’s hair before he is once again thrown entirely off-kilter. Because Derek’s mouthing at the inside of Stiles’s thighs, teasing them open with gentle nudges of his head. Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to ask what he’s doing, because he’s pretty sure all the air gets sucked out of his lungs, possibly the entire room for fuck's sake, because Derek’s spreading him wide and leaning down, and then just starts  _ fucking eating him _ . 

“ _ Oh my god, jesus fucking --.”  _ And it’s not like Stiles doesn’t know the mechanics of rimming. He’s seen plenty of porn, thank you. It’s just porn didn’t really prepare him for how overwhelmingly too much and too good it would feel, the wet, hot slick of Derek’s tongue as he laps at Stiles’s hole. It should feel so wrong, dirty, and it does but in the most dizzing, electrifying way. Because every single nerve in Stiles’s body feels fried, singed, and all he can do is hang on, whimper pitifully as Derek fucks into him with rhythmic jabs and languid swirls of his tongue against his entrance. “Fuck you, you son of bitch, please just let me come, god damnit -- “ Stiles mutters, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. God, he simply can’t shut up. He can’t. He never could, frankly, but the extent of his frantic babbling and his needy pleas is pretty shameful at this point. "Please, I just need--" 

…

“So fucking pretty,” Derek croons, and god, he’s never meant anything more. Stiles is fucking exquisite, all sharp angles and long limbs, smooth, pale legs twitching helplessly around Derek's shoulders, caging him in a trap he has no desire to get out of. The boy, fuck he tastes good, feels incredible,  _ sounds heavenly _ . Those soft little cries, Stiles begging for him, begging for anything he’s willing to give, it’s almost more than he knows what to do with. “No one’s stopping you, baby,” he rumbles, pulling away just long enough to press another toothy grin against the curve of the boy’s ass. Stiles’s cock is so hard, dripping pre-cum and jutting angrily away from the concave of his stomach pulled taut from exertion. There’s a moment where Derek wonders if he could get Stiles to come just like this, just from his tongue, and it’s a thought that’s as satisfying as it is impossibly alluring. But it seems unlikely from the distraught little whimpers of desperation and unfulfilled need that can’t seem to stop from finding their way out of the boy’s mouth that’s all swollen and spit-slick from where he’s been gnawing on his lip.

Stiles’s hands are scrabbling at Derek’s back like he’s trying to find something to hold on to, but he can’t. Apparently, he settles for sinking his nails into Derek’s shoulders, that slight flash of pain gone as quick as it comes. “I can’t--please,  _ Derek. I need --”  _ and honestly, if there’s anything he understands more, Derek thinks, it’s that.  _ Need. _

_ “Okay, okay,”  _ Derek says, pulling back again to press another kiss sweetly against one of Stiles’s quaking thighs. He could tease him, whisper something like,  _ what happened to ‘I can be patient?'  _ but while Derek is many things, he isn’t cruel. And that’s what it would be at this point, he thinks, if the way Stiles is looking at him, using those deep, honey-brown eyes to plead for mercy. It might not stop him from wondering what else he could get Stiles to beg for, but that’s for another time. Not right now. 

Stiles is so close to breaking already, but Derek needs lube, and honestly, he’s never been more thankful for supernatural speed because he’s gone and back with the half-empty bottle before the boy has a chance to protest. Not that Stiles would have likely noticed judging by the wrecked, half-fucked out expression already on his hauntingly beautiful face. The sound he lets out when Derek circles his entrance with his thumb, finally breaches him with a slicked-up finger, is so heart-wrenchingly sweet it almost makes his teeth ache. It’s not going to take long to get him there, he knows that, but Derek can’t help but savor the way Stiles’s slender hips buck off the bed, that delicious bolt of pain that sends tendrils of liquid fire down his spine when the boy’s fingers curl in his hair and yank, hard. “Jesus, fuck,  _ look at you _ .” 

_ “Shut up, shut up, shut up, I still hate you, ” _ Stiles chants, head tossed back like he’s saying a prayer to some unknown deity, but he doesn’t mean any of it. Derek doesn’t even have to listen to his heartbeat to know that. It happens so quick, Stiles’s shuddering orgasm, and Derek lets out a groan that breaks off into a snarling rumble in his chest when he feels the boy clench tight, all fluttering walls and wet heat around his searching fingers.

Stiles is still shaking, his chest all flushed and slick with sweat and ropes of splattered cum, when Derek eases out of him. But he’s careful not to pull away, because Stiles still smells so needy that he’s afraid what will happen if he does. Instead, he tries to comfort him with the slow, easy glide of his palm up the long lines of his legs, his stomach, to settle at his heart, following the path with his mouth until he’s braced over the boy with his arms on either side before claiming his lips again. 

…

Stiles should probably care more that Derek’s kissing him considering what he was doing with his mouth seconds earlier, but god, he doesn’t care as long as the other boy  _ doesn’t stop.  _ Instead, he kisses him back eagerly, sucking on his tongue to spur him on, scraping his teeth against Derek’s jaw when they finally break apart long enough to breathe. He’s still hanging on to the wolf for what feels like dear life, anchoring his hands on Derek’s broad shoulders and relishing the feel of the muscle flexing under his touch. Derek’s answering growl makes his stomach do that flippy thing it always does, feeling that vibrating rumble all the way down to his still-curling toes.

“Okay?” Derek asks softly, nosing at Stiles’s cheek. 

“Mmmm,” Stiles answers, smiling because it tickles and because he’s definitely still coming down from his orgasm. How then, he wonders, can he still  _ want _ Derek so much? Feels like it’s never going to stop. If he’s honest, he never wants it to. “But I want you to come, too.”

“Even though you hate me?” Derek asks, and Stiles wants to roll his eyes because even though he can’t see Derek’s face, he can feel the press of all those teeth. Derek’s laughing at him. 

“I’m warming up to you,” Stiles says, and then he doesn’t give Derek the chance to say anything else, sliding his own hand through that mess of still-drying cum and lube on his stomach and curling it around the other boy’s cock, still clearly hard and wanting.

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Derek hisses, and Stiles merely shivers in response when the wolf licks and sucks and bites at his collarbones while fucking into his fist with sloppy, frenzied thrusts. Derek is so  _ big _ , in every way, and the weight of him in his hand, how hot and slick he feels, it only fuels that same constant, aching need in his gut. Derek must feel it too, he  _ has to.  _

“Next time, I want you to fuck me,” Stiles whispers, mouthing at Derek’s ear, sucking on the lobe. 

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, and there’s a distinct satisfaction Stiles feels when he sees those glowing blue eyes, the tips of Derek’s fangs jutting out from his mouth. “You can’t just --”

“Yes, I can,” Stiles retorts, and he’s the one growling now as he rears back and bites at Derek’s throat while squeezing the older boy’s cock as if he needs to punctuate the words.  _ “I can do whatever I want.”  _

The sound that Derek lets out is one Stiles isn’t sure he’s heard him make before. Some kind of garbled mix between a howl and a snarl. There’s a ripping sound that a quick glance to the side proves to be Derek’s claws shredding into his mattress as the wolf comes with rough, choppy thrusts of his hips, grinding into him with so much bruising fury that it feels like he’s trying to push Stiles’s body straight through the bed and onto the floor. They stay like that for a while, Derek pressed against him, nestled into his shoulder, sucking what Stiles is certain is going to be the mother of all hickies into the crook of his neck. “Sorry,” Derek huffs weakly after their breathing starts to return to normal, “M’heavy.”

“Shut up,” Stiles mumbles, because they both know he likes it, the weight. He can’t quite explain why, put it into words other than  _ good _ and  _ safe.  _ “And don’t disappear on me again, okay, asshole?”

Derek hums in agreement. “I won’t, I promise.” 

They’re messy and covered in cum and sweat, and it should be gross, and it kind of is, but they end up dozing anyway. After a while, warm and comfortable, Stiles tugs sleepily on the ends of Derek’s hair and he growls, pressing the tips of his teeth just hard enough to sting against the thin skin stretched over his shoulder blade. “It’s a wolfy thing isn’t it? I mean, your wolfy parts like me, and that’s why this is so --. I’m like your own personal brand of werewolfy heroin?”

“Did you just quote Twilight at me?”

Stiles covers his face, snickering. “So you  _ have _ read Twilight? You girl.” 

“I have sisters. I know things. And for the record, you’re important to all of my parts, not just the wolfy ones,” Derek says, chuffing a laugh against Stiles’s pulse point, pausing a moment before leaning down to lick at it lazily. “I love you.”

Stiles feels his breath catch, peeking up at his ceiling through his spread fingertips. “Oh.”

He feels Derek’s hands, big and warm, wrap around his wrists and pull them away from his face. And then Derek’s laughing at him, again (Stiles is sensing a theme here). “Oh?” the wolf asks quizzically, arching one of those ridiculous eyebrows. “Good oh, or bad oh?” 

“Oh as in, ‘all my parts think you’re important, too.’” Stiles feels the blush flame hot on his face. Because god, why is he such an idiot? Maybe the earth will show him mercy, crack open and swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to just slowly wither and die of embarrassment. “God, shit -- I mean  _ I love you, um, as well. Fuck,  _ I mean, love you, too. I --”

Thank god Derek shuts him up after that with a kiss so bruising it actually hurts. The good kind of hurt and Stiles gladly lets the wolf take the lead, rough and wild, and practically devouring him with his teeth and his tongue. 

And he finds he doesn’t quite mind it at the moment, feeling a little like prey. 

  
  



End file.
